Ordinary Lives
by Sentimental Semantics
Summary: A collection of short stories and standalone-pieces from ranging perspectives in the Halo canon. Rated M for blood, gore, and language. Reviews are much appreciated and suggestions regarding subject-matter will be taken seriously.
1. Red

**If you clicked on this story you're hear to read the story itself, and not the author's note; therefore I'll keep this as concise as I can. As a general statement, all the characters (and the planet) mentioned below are original, and not taken directly from canon. In terms of fitting into the Halo timeline, this story takes place in December of 2550. There's a bigger note at the bottom. Anyway, I won't bore you any longer; here you go.**

"Heathrow—Huxley is down! Get to him!"

Richard nodded at his commanding officer, who was only a few feet away and took in a large gulp of breath. Shaw had been his commanding officer since before they'd touched down on the surface of Tsingtao, and he'd been training to comply with the Sergeant's orders at a pin-drop. He glanced out of cover nervously and hurriedly before glancing up at Huxley's roost in the distance. It was a long way.

The Covenant had touched down on the surface about five hours ago, and Shaw's platoon had been close behind. They were approximately seven miles south of the outskirts of Tsingtao's major metropolis (Hebei), and had dug in due have a vantage point on Covenant that would be attempting to move to the city. Thankfully, Hebei was bolstered with many anti-air defenses, so the Covenant had been forced to land their troops far from the city's perimeter; it was here, on the side of a narrow creek in a surprisingly scenic landscape, that Alpha Company had dug in to try stop the Covenant advance. On the north side of the creek—the side closer to the city—Alpha had formed a defensive line to try and create an impenetrable wall; the longer they held the creek, the more civilians were able to evacuate out of Hebei and into orbit. The entire maneuver was little more than suppressive fire on a grander scale, but it was being done for the right reasons. Everyone knew that.

The terrain reminded Richard of rural England; long fields of grass that ranged in height and species, with a little, narrow brook winding lazily through the greenery. The meadows were pockmarked with large rocks and erosion, however—presumably from when the planet had been terraformed. These rocks proved useful for cover and for giving anyone atop them a better vantage point over the enemy; about fifty feet up and to the right, Huxley, the platoon's sharpshooter, had chosen to set up shop with his sniper rifle. He'd had a good sightline and was able to overlook a large area of the babbling brook (which was so narrow a man could probably leap across it in a single bound) and, therefore, the advancing Covenant forces. It was possible, however, that he had overextended himself—bitten off more than he could chew—and now he was paying the price for it.

Richard was with Shaw and several other marines, ducked behind a large number of sandbags that the squad had thrown together for cover. It was originally supposed to be one of their failsafes—cover they could fall back to once the Covies passed through the river—but they had misidentified their enemy. They had been expecting the bold-yet-tactical Elites to lead the forces sent against them; instead, the troops were led by Brutes, who—as their name suggested—favored the bloodcurdling charge over a systematic advance. For that reason the Covenant's line was splayed and scattered, with some troops still on the far side of the river, and over groups much too close for comfort. The Brutes were disorganized, but extraordinarily dangerous, especially in close quarters; the UNSC Army's go-to strategy of keeping the alien enemy as far away as possible during engagements and fighting at range was essential in combating them. Unfortunately, their brute force (no pun intended) had carried them through much of the bullet-hail that Alpha Company had thrown down.

A group of small aliens, Grunts, were moving up from behind some rocky cover no less than twenty feet away. They should have had a Brute with them, to lead them (as was the typical Covenant doctrine, supposedly), but Richard didn't see one. It was surprising they had advanced without a larger alien at their sides, as the Grunts typically had to be forced into action.

Richard brought his assault rifle up and pulled the trigger, aiming at the Grunts. The gun jittered in his hold, and the bullets flew sporadically towards the Grunts, who could do nothing more than advance. There was a blossoming of blue, fluorescent ooze after a few seconds, however, and Richard realized he must have hit one. The Grunt on the far right of the group stared down at its arm, which was now seeping with bright-blue blood, and the rest began to spread out, trying to avoid being shot as well. Shots riddled several of the others as they continued to advance, and they collapsed to the ground in bloodied, tattered heaps. The one that Richard had hit, with the wounded arm, attempted to bumble backwards toward cover, and Richard kept firing at it. It eventually collapsed forwards, presumably shot straight through its large, methane-filled breathing apparatus, but Richard wasn't sure if he or another soldier had hit it in the end.

"Heathrow, what the hell are you doing! We will keep you covered; get to Huxley's position and see to him."

"Understood!" Richard hollered, looking to make sure the way to Huxley's sniper-roost was now clear—it was…hopefully. He swallowed and braced himself. "Please do, sir!"

"Move your ass!"

Richard stepped out of cover and sprinted towards Huxley's ground—effectively the same tactic the Grunts had just attempted. Richard realized, as he ran, that he really couldn't accuse the Grunts of having to be 'forced into action' by superiors; he wasn't entirely different.

He ran, clutching his assault rifle, and muttered a string of curses under his breath. The ground under his feet was uneven; he desperately hoped that he wouldn't step in a rabbit-hole, or something of the like. Just as the Grunts had been exposed to overwhelming fire as they advanced, Richard was now caught in the open; he heard plasma weapons being discharged, and ran all the faster, his heart jumping about in his chest. A large green blob whizzed past him, sinking into the ground near his feet; where it landed, the soil burned and smoldered. Gritting his teeth, he kept running, trying to ignore the explosions and gunfire that formed a chorus on all his sides.

Near the foot of the large rocky incline that Huxley was on, there was smoking, burned wreckage of a vehicle—a Warthog. Richard practically flung himself behind the makeshift cover, stooping down and ducking behind the overturned side of the large jeep. He stopped to catch his breath, taking in large gulps of air, and tried to ignore his surroundings. The Warthog must have been placed at this position so its turret could have good range on the Covenant line, but the aliens had wasted no time in destroying the 'hog; the smell of burning rubber and burning flesh rose from the scorched earth at his feet. Richard felt bad for the gunner; he tried to avoid looking at the man's remains, as he had practically been grafted into the metallic surface of the vehicle when it had exploded. The results were disgusting.

Richard took the practically-empty magazine from his rifle and flung it to the ground, scrambling to reload. As soon as he had, he stuck the barrel of his rifle around the edge of the warthog and blind-fired in the Covenant's direction until the clip ran dry. He reloaded again, and glanced up at the scraggly knoll he'd have to ascend to finally reach Huxley.

Richard once again pushed off from cover and began to run, moving up the incline as fast as his legs would carry him. This time less plasma was flung in his direction, and he was thankful for it; Shaw and the others had presumably helped take the heat off.

Upon getting to the top Richard fell to a knee and ducked his head beneath the top of another pile of sandbags that Huxley's rifle was leaning against. The man was lying down on the ground, breathing heavily—still alive. Richard nearly fell forwards on top of him as a nearby explosion shook the ground.

"Sam, can you hear me?" Huxley didn't make much of a response; his breathing was ragged and ranged from long, gasping gulps to worryingly short sighs. He was probably just over thirty, with a goatee—rapidly evolving into a beard—on his face. He made eye contact with Richard, though, glancing up at the other man (who was more than a decade younger than Huxley). "Hang on, Sam. You'll be…" Richard trailed off as he saw the injury.

The Brutes were well known for their interesting choice of weaponry; unlike most Covenant troops, which used the generalized plasma-based weaponry that seemed to be Covenant standard-issue, Brutes chose to stick to their own tech. With a plasma burn, assuming the wound wasn't lethal, there wasn't too much to be done in the field; a bit of morphine and some stims, as well as maybe an scan for radiation or potential amputation after the battle—if there was no cut or physical wound, and only burnt flesh, there was little that could be done other than isolating the smoldering skin. With the energy shards—the 'needle' weapons—things could get grim, as the little crystalline shards needed to be exhumed from a wound one by one, which could often take hours; suturing or stitching up a wound was unwise unless all the little, pink splinters had been pulled out of it first. But the Brute weapons—the most common of which was the spike rifle, or Spiker—spat out massive spikes (Brutes were not inventive with their military nomenclature): massive, superheated, sharpened hunks of metal as long as a person's hand, from fingertip to wrist. A pair of the large spikes had sunk into Huxley's stomach, just underneath the end of the ribcage; they had clearly pierced the man's external gear (the BDU, or battle dress uniform, worn by all UNSC Army forces) and underarmor and finally his skin, as blood spurted from the wounds every few seconds, sending little fountains up into the air. The excess crimson trickled and dribbled down the marine's side, painting his belly a rose-red color. Richard wasn't sure exactly how deep the superheated spikes had sunk—they could have gone through organs and even bone if they'd gone deep enough—but Huxley smelled of fried skin and burnt hair.

Richard managed to keep a grimace from his face, looking up at Sam again. His training had granted him, if nothing else, a good poker face. "You'll be fine, Sam. Just try to stay calm. I'll get to work."

Richard stooped over Huxley's downed form, swinging the large burden on his back off his shoulders and down onto the floor alongside him. He would have normally abandoned the large backpack so he could run faster—i.e. when he'd had to run to Huxley's position—but its contents were far too valuable to do such a thing. He began rummaging through the various pockets until he found the right materials.

Huxley's eyes never left Richard's face the entire time. He looked panicked and terrified. No doubt that, had he the strength to speak, he would have been screaming. "Relax," Richard said, doing his best to smile down at the sniper. "Relax."

Taking out a large canister of biofoam, Richard pressed the tube projecting from the top of the canister into the wound, wedging the nozzle in between the torn surface of the BDU and the still hot (though thankfully not burning) side of one of the spikes, and pressed down on the canister's release. Whitish fluid, almost the color and texture of shaving cream, poured from the nozzle and into the wound until some of the stuff seeped from the top, mixing in with blood. It was ice-cold to the touch, but would quickly warm up to the temperature of Huxley's skin and exposed wound, in order to stop the blood-flow, and seal over in an attempt to emulate regenerated skin tissue, and—hopefully—alleviate the pain. The foam reacted quickly and Huxley would be better off within seconds, but its effects couldn't be relied on for too long. The man was still in grave danger of losing his life; the biofoam simply bought time.

As soon as the can was empty, Richard flung it over his shoulder, and Huxley's gasps became a bit more balanced. However, he still didn't manage any words, which was worrying; even with the biofoam bolstering his system, he was too weak to manage any words. Richard began looking through his bag for more medical supplies; he was so focused on his work, and attempting to save Huxley's life, that a Brute probably could have clambered up the incline and snuck up behind him without him noticing.

Richard was a medic, and not a surgeon, but this job was going to necessitate a lot of in-depth work. He contemplated trying to pull the spikes out of Huxley's chest, but doing so would require more muscle than he had, and an abrupt removal could actually kill Huxley if he wasn't careful. He would have to try and get them out slowly and gently—though it would probably cause Huxley a lot of pain.

"Okay. Here we go. Sam, this is going to be painful." Richard set a second canister of biofoam out for easy accessibility and cracked his knuckles. "Breath in, Winifred," He whispered underneath his breath.

Wincing from the unpleasant basis of the situation, Richard moved his long, dexterous fingers over the bloodied opening, and sank them into the wound. The injury was wide enough that he was able to do so, wriggling his fingers into the cavity that had been torn open by the spikes. They sunk through the slowly-sealing biofoam and the blood that mixed with it; Richard felt a mixture of the frosty-cold and freshly-hot temperatures against his skin. Sam let out a whimper of pain.

Unable to see, Richard had to use only his sense of touch to guide him as he sunk his hands deeper and deeper into the wound. He wriggled his fingers about, letting them writhe slightly—crowded together by the BDU's layers—and moved them until he could feel the side of one of the spikes. The projectile was superheated once fired and it was still quite warm—as was Huxley's excessive blood—but the metal against his skin was a very noticeable sensation. Richard began to move his hands deeper, tracing the edge of one of the spikes to see how far down it went. Eventually, in moving, he felt the dampened BDU give way to the much softer and much squishier flesh beneath, and then, eventually, to the sickening feel of what was beneath the skin. Richard wasn't sure what organ his fingers (he had no gloves) were touching, but he couldn't see anything of his hands below the wrists because they were thrust so deep into the wound.

Finally he found what seemed to be the tip of the embedded spike. Swallowing down his own nausea, he began pinching at the very tip—which was still quite hot—until he was able to move it free of the skin below. Slowly, and very tenderly, he wrapped one palm around the spike, and began raising it back the way he had come, up and out of the wound. It was slow going as the spike seemed to get stuck several times.

When he finally managed to pull the entire spike out, he tossed it to the ground nearby, and glanced at his hands. There were specks of biofoam here and there, globules of the thick stuff, but they were absolutely drenched in Huxley's blood. It looked like he was wearing red gloves. Richard cursed the officers to had decided upon his issued supplies for not including gloves not only for his own sake, but also for Huxley's; if the man ended up with an infection because he'd been contaminated by germs on Richard's hands, it would be very life-threatening (though at the present time that wasn't the most pressing issue, to say the least).

Richard fumbled for the next canister of biofoam; he knew that, with the pressure of the spike removed, blood flow would probably increase from the injury. He filled the spot with half of the canister, knowing he'd have to save the other half for the second spike. "Okay, halfway there, Sam," Richard said, looking at him. Sam looked pained and still panicked, but he'd calmed down a bit. He managed a single, weak nod at Richard.

Richard took a deep breath and braced himself, moving his bloodied hands over the second wound, when something screeched in his ear. "_Heathrow! Heathrow, respond!_" Shaw's voice was very distinct.

Richard raised a bloodied hand to his radio-communicator and turned on the transmission. "Here, Sergeant."

"_The Covenant is falling back! They're retreating…_" Shocked, Richard glanced up. He couldn't see over the barricade but he heard just as much gunfire—maybe a few fewer explosions—but a bit more yelling. Most of the gunfire seemed to be emanating from human firearms now; it surprised Richard both because he'd been very focused and hadn't noticed the changing tides of battle, and also because the Covenant did not 'retreat' very often—especially the Brutes. Richard, realizing his mind had wandered, tuned back into the Sergeant's call.

"…_Shot! Do you understand?_"

"Sorry, sir, can you repeat that last? I didn't copy—"

"_Their commander is retreating right now! It's near the back, the big one. We can't let it get away. You need to get Huxley on his feet and get him to take the shot so that bastard doesn't escape._"

Richard frowned. "Can't comply, sir." He looked down at Sam. "Huxley can't stand up, sir, and he's in need of medical attention."

"_If he can't do it then YOU_ _have to do it. Is his rifle intact?_"

Richard looked around and spotted it again. "Yes, but I can't do it, sir. I need to tend to the Private!"

"_He can wait, Heathrow. Get up and take out their leader—that's an order!_"

Richard desperately looked from the gasping, pained Huxley to the rifle several feet away. "Sir, Huxley is gravely injured! I can't!"

"_Do it! That's an order!_"

"Fuck!" Richard roared, but put in an "Understood, sir!" immediately afterwards Turning off his transmission, he looked down at Huxley apologetically. "Sam, Shaw wants me to man your post. I'm sorry; he won't take no for an answer. Just hang tight and stay still—I'll be back in a second." With that, Richard turned towards the sniper rifle and moved over to it. He picked it up and examined the weapon hurriedly, propping the edge of it on the sandbags and hefting it up so he could look down the scope, bringing one knee up to support himself. The spots where he gripped it quickly became slippery, smeared by his bloody grip. Before he peeked into the sights, he glanced over his shoulder at Huxley, who was lying on the ground, breathing weakly. "Fucking…fuck this," He murmured quietly. "Fuck."

"_Heathrow!_" He winced as he heard the noise in his ear. _"None of us have a clear shot—you have to shoot, now!_"

Richard cursed, though not in response. He'd barely even trained with sniper rifles. He turned on his transmitter with an index finger, staining his radio, yet again, with a red splotch. "Which on is the commander?"

"_The big one. You'll know him when you see him. He's almost across the creek now!_"

Richard scanned the distance for the so called 'big one' and certainly did know it on sight. The Brute was enormous, with black fur on its arms and chest. It took up almost the entire scope; the creature must have been at least nine feet tall. It wore more armor than most Brutes (which, truth be told, actually wore little armor to begin with; they had shield generators like the Elites, but theirs were much weaker, meaning that they had to and did compensate for it with their thicker, tougher hides), and the monster's large headdress was riddled with burns and bulletholes. There was a large weapon, a gargantuan hammer-like device, slung over the creature's back; in one hand it held a Spiker, and was firing it at some unseen enemy. It was backing away and was now through the miniscule creek, and it was almost to the edge of woodland, where the trees would obscure it from sight. It stopped for a second, roaring defiantly as it retreated; through the scope, Richard could see large specks of spittle fly from a very toothy mouth.

The medic squinted down the sights and moved his finger up to the sniper rifle's trigger, not knowing what to expect in terms of knockback. He steadied his aim, trying to line up the targeting reticule with the Brute's large head, and held his breath. It turned, assuming it was close enough to the forest to hightail it, and began to lope off towards safety.

"_It's getting away!_"

Richard tried to ignore Shaw's less-than-helpful analysis as he realigned his sights. A moving target? This would take a miracle.

"_Shoot that bastard! Take the shot, Corpsman!_"

Richard depressed the trigger and felt a sudden jolt of pain; as he heard the shriek of the gun's discharge, the kickback pressed the sniper rifle against his chest, and the sights he had been looking down flew straight at his eye with the abruptness and strength of a sucker-punch. He hadn't been ready at all and, momentarily blinded, he grunted in pain. The gun clattered to the ground and he moved his hands up toward his right eye, which was badly bruised, forgetting for a second that his arms were dripping with Huxley's blood. Holding his face in pain, the red ooze splashed against his exposed skin.

"_You got him. You got him! Heathrow, you got that son of a bitch! Well done!_"

Richard looked up with his good eye, glancing into the distance, and saw the large, black-furred form of the titanic Brute stretched out on the earth, deep-red blood pouring from its corpse. Richard groaned at the pain emanating from his new black eye.

Regardless, he quickly sprung back to his duty, and groggily turned towards Huxley. Having dropped the sniper, he stumbled over to Huxley's form; with one eye blackened and with a face painted with blood, he wasn't able to see very much.

"I'm back, Sam. Now let's get you fixed up properly," Richard said, lowering his hands toward the wound. Just before he sunk them in, though, he looked up at Huxley's face, realizing that the sniper hadn't returned eye contact. His eyes were simply staring upwards at the sky. The man's heartbeat had stopped.

Richard stayed there, staring at Huxley's dead body for a second, before screaming. "Damnit!" He roared, pulling off his helmet and flinging it to the ground. He punched at his radio. "God fucking damnit! Fuck!" He tossed the half filled biofoam canister over towards the sniper rifle, and collapsed backward onto his rear end alongside Sam's prone form. His screams slowly transformed into sobs.

**Alright, that's the end of the story. I hope you liked it. It is, for the time being, a oneshot, though this STORY (as in the fan-fiction-dot-net 'story') is a work of progress. As I think I mentioned in the summary, this story will be a string of oneshots (or at least relatively short-stories) that all connect to characters in the Halo universe. I have several other chapters lying in wait already, but I'm still pondering subject matter; I think I will do some stories from non-human perspectives fairly soon and potentially from the perspectives of canon characters (the Arbiter, Keyes, and Parisa being examples; tou kno****he 'canonity' being considered is anything canon, so any character from the novels, graphic novels, short stories, or games is applicable here). I'll probably post each with little more than a date in the canon plotline (this story's date being an example) and try to explain anything else in the narrative itself. For that reason, any time period, character, or subject matter is up for consideration. If you, as the reader, have any suggestions, feel free to give them to me in a PM or review. I'd be very appreciative. If you want me to write a story about Tartarus, tell me. If you want me to write another story about one of the characters in this story, tell me. If you think I'm a horrible writer, tell me (although knowing why would be nice; you kno****w, constructive criticism and all that). Anyway, I've rambled enough; thanks very much for reading; as always reviews are much appreciated. Take care, and again, thanks. **


	2. Regarding Family

**Hey everyone. Here's another drabble, completely separate from the last one. Two quick things: first, in terms of timeline, this story takes place in 2549 (by the UNSC calendar) aboard a frigate. The second thing is purely a stylistic note; I felt like mentioning that one of the characters in this piece has an accent-specifically a modern-day US-Southerner's accent. I choose not to 'write out' accents, at least not totally, as it can give characters an overly-comedic sense. The character is, at least in this piece, somewhat serious, so writing out his accent would make him seem 'funnier' than he is supposed to be. There is still a bit of the accent in the writing style, though, but-for example-instead of seeing: **

**"Is there a reason fer me to be drinkin' this late? Naw, there ain't."**

**I'd write:**

******"Is there a reason for me to be drinking this late? No, there ain't."**

******Just as a comment. Anyway, long author's note; sorry. Here goes. **

"Mo?"

Every UNSC ship, even small frigates like the _Ramses II_, had a mess hall. They weren't luxurious; a cafeteria was defined by a good deal of tables and a counter being together in the same walled-in area. It was the middle of the night, and the mess hall was entirely empty in these late hours, save for one person—well, two people, now. Gabe hated big rooms when they weren't filled up; they were cavernous and unsettling. He was a people-person anyway.

When he called out—which was weird, since normally you didn't do much 'calling out' in the mess hall and expect to be heard over the general din—Mo turned his head and his head only. He was seated on a bench at one of the far tables, hunching a bit. He glanced over his broad shoulder at Gabe's frame in the corner of the room. "Oh. Evening, Gabe."

Gabe's family, like many families, clung onto its initial Earth-roots even after leaving the planet. His father had always told him, 'before you were from Reach, you were from Puerto Rico', and Gabe had understood the logic. Mo's family placed similar importance upon heritage, and Mo often talked about how his grandfather would always ramble about the greatness South Carolina in North America. Several generations and light-years after and the Montgomery family still had a distinctive accent from the region back home; Mo's _evening_ sounded like _evenin'_. The accent was unmistakable, and Mo had a very thick one, to say the least.

Gabe began making his way towards his friend's table. "How are you doing?"

"I'm all right, Gabe." Mo said, but this time he didn't look over his shoulder. Gabe continued to walk up behind him.

"No, seriously," Gabe said, a little more softly. "How are you doing?"

Mo didn't respond for a few seconds, and finally motioned to the bench. "I suppose you'll be needing a seat if you want to talk for a spell."

Gabe smiled and adjusted his glasses; it was late and he'd already taken out his contacts, so for now he was using his specs. "Thanks."

"Not a problem." Gabe sat down to Mo's right and looked at him. Mo wasn't returning the look; he was staring at the surface is his muddy-brown drink. One big, meaty palm was wrapped around a small glass on the table, and it was filled with some sort of beverage. Gabe would have jokingly asked if the drink was mint julep, or sweet tea, but he knew it wasn't the time.

Mo raised the glass towards his lips. Alcohol wasn't permitted in large quantities aboard UNSC vessels, except potentially for captains, but it wasn't too hard to get it. Mo was far from an alcoholic; he was the sort of person who enjoyed a cold drink with friends, but he probably wouldn't drink by himself, which made this very abnormal behavior.

"So," Mo said before taking a swig of the drink. He lowered the glass again, and it clinked against the table. "You're up mighty late." It was more of a question than a comment.

"I heard someone walking around," Gabe said. "You're a big guy. Heavy footsteps."

Mo smiled weakly. "That's fair enough." Mo couldn't deny his size; at six-five and bulging with muscle, he was easily the largest man in his-and-Gabe's platoon, Despite his large size and muscular stature, he had a very boyish face; altogether he wasn't at all a bad-looking guy. One of his most distinguishing features was his wide and infectious smile; it was a unique grin that was almost always painting his face, so seeing a meek, toothless smile now was bizarre, and said volumes about how Mo was feeling.

Gabe cleared his throat. "And you?"

Mo's small smile faded, giving way to a more serious expression. "Just thinking," He said.

"Huh." Gabe waited a few more seconds to see if Mo would add anything onto his comment before continuing. "Its Paris IV, isn't it?"

Mo let out a low humming sound and glanced up at Gabe for an instant. "Yeah. …Yeah, it is." He stared back at his drink.

There was a momentary silence. "How's your sister?" Gabe finally asked. "Have you talked to her?"

Mo sat up a bit straighter. "Yeah, I talked to her yesterday, just a couple hours after they told me."

"She okay?"

"She's fine." Mo raised towards his lips again. "She's got her boyfriend there for her, to support her. I'm glad for that." Gabe couldn't tell if Mo was trying to change the subject. "He's a nice fella."

Gabe nodded understandingly, staring at the table. "That's good."

There was another silence before Mo shifted his gargantuan form again. Compared to Gabe, who was scrawny and less than six feet, he looked like an elephant. "I'm just glad she went off-world for college."

Gabe nodded again. "Was there…?"

"No. Nobody else." Mo was either giving his drink or his reflection in the drink a very somber look. "Even after dad sold most of our property, he stuck around. Mom too." He was quiet.

"I'm sorry, Mo."

Mo didn't respond for a short time. "I always felt like this was one of those things that happened to other folks," He said honestly. "But not to you. Like a robbery. You're used to seeing it, but…"

"Yeah, I understand," Gabe said with a few more nods. Mo glanced up at Gabe and for a minute the smaller man was worried Mo would ask '_really? How's that?_' but he didn't even blink. Even if Mo had an irate personality, which he didn't, he was clearly not in a very aggressive mood at the moment. Gabe wasn't sure he was the right person to give support; his family was still alive and safe on Reach. "Hardship sucks like that. That's how I felt back in my old platoon, before I transferred." He spoke of his old platoon somewhat disdainfully.

"Powerful shame that you had to put up with all that junk in the first place," Mo said. "Real idiocy on their part. Homophobia is ancient history. Like…Zeus, or something." Mo took another swig. The glass was almost empty now.

Gabe nodded, appreciating Mo's comment, and adjusted his glasses. "Anyway, shit happens; that's all behind me now. And it's not important." He coughed to clear his throat again. "I just wanted to make sure you were doing okay."

"I appreciate it." Mo squinted at the remains of his drink but set it down on the table, shrugging slightly. His massive shoulders moved slowly as he did so. "I just sort of wish I'd been there." Gabe opened his mouth to say something, but Mo continued, almost expecting Gabe to do such a thing. "I know it wouldn't have changed anything, but it just…that's what it feels like, anyway."

"You have no way of controlling where and when the Covenant attack," Gabe said, trying to alleviate what sounded like guilt. "Nobody does."

Mo smiled slightly. "Yeah, well, I bet my dad gave the aliens a good licking before they glassed everything." He chuckled, lost in memory, and Gabe chuckled too out of sensitive politeness.

"Sounds like it runs in the family," He said with a grin.

Mo chuckled at the comment, but his expression quickly returned to the grave one of the past few minutes. "I'd still like some closure."

"That's only human." Gabe said. "It's a lot to take in."

Mo nodded and then abruptly said, "My sister wants me to leave the Army. To go stay with her and her boyfriend."

Gabe was shocked. "Why?"

"I'd imagine she probably just doesn't want to lose anybody else," Mo said. "And I understand how she feels."

"Oh. I see." Nervously, Gabe asked, "Well, are you going to?"

"No." Mo stared down at his drink. "Paris IV's in my head, but, so's Ballast. Remember Ballast?" Gabe nodded. "I learned a lot that day. The Covenant's not unstoppable, and all that. I know Em would like to see me back home, where its safe, but I'd rather be here. I'd rather keep trying to protect Em, and Earth, instead of just staying there and waiting for the aliens to find it."

"That makes a lot of sense."

"Well, I hope so. I'm no genius, but that's how I see it." Mo raised the glass to his lips and quickly drank its remains down in a single go. "That's how I see it," He repeated.

Gabe patted him on the back. His hand was dwarfed against Mo's massive frame. "You want some time alone?"

Mo grunted. "No. I'm good. Better get some sleep anyhow." He stood up. Gabe stood up next to him. "Thank you kindly, Gabe."

"For what?"

"Just, you know, for talking."

Gabe smiled. "No worries, man." He turned to leave. A few seconds later, Mo followed after. He still looked very thoughtful, and he was so distracted he left his empty glass out on the table.

**Hopefully the characters of both Gabe and Mo were clear. This piece was supposed to center largely around Mo, with Gabe as a sort of 'cameraman' character, but I like writing about both of them. I hope they were interesting to read about; if you like them, go ahead and tell me, and I'll feature one, or another, or both, in the future. Who knows? Red (by which I mean Richard, the character from the first little drabble) may return if people like him enough. How did this and the first story compare? I'm curious. Tell me what you think if you feel inclined. I'm all ears. Again, thanks for reading! I'll try to get another posting up soon. Reviews are awesome! Thanks for reading!**


	3. The Dam part 1

**Okay. After reading through the reviews I came up with this idea, based on what people seemed to like. This chapter is predominantly action and hopefully will explain itself over time; as per usual I don't want to write a big note at the beginning so I'll save most of my comments for the bottom. Chronologically, this story takes place in Autumn of 2552-and specifically the Fall of Reach (and with that said it is in no way connected to the plot line of the upcoming game, so you shouldn't fear any spoilers). I hope you enjoy. **

There was only one soldier waiting for them on the second floor. He was standing by the far wall, holding a grenade launcher. His eyes were staring forward, into space, at absolutely nothing.

Gabe was the first one into the building. The platoon was moving in standard formation; he scanned the corners while at point, with Mo and Vodka close behind him. Red was around the middle, with Ebony nearby, and Tempo was watching their six with his shotgun. Since he was at the front, Gabe moved up to the man with the grenade launcher.

"You with Alpha?" Gabe asked. The man said nothing, and didn't even look at Gabe, standing attentively and looking at the far wall. "Are you part of Alpha?" Gabe repeated, as the rest of the team made their way to the top of the stairs. They hadn't even needed to take them—there was enough ruined rubble and wreckage on the first floor to climb through some of the holes in the floor of the second—but they chose to. "Hey! I'm talking to you!"

"Caballero!" Gabe turned to see Ebony approaching. The Sergeant always butchered the pronunciation of his last name, but he was used to it by now. "Where the hell is Alpha company?"

"I think we found…him, Sarge."

The Gunnery Sergeant was around six feet—considerably taller than Gabe. When she approached, he moved out of her way as she stepped forward in front of the shell shocked marine. "Name and rank, soldier."

He still said nothing. Ebony turned to the rest of the platoon, most of which were looking out the windows of the building—which had all been smashed out by now. They were scanning for hostiles. "Red!"

The team's medic glanced up from his spot at one of the windows, trundling over as quickly as he could with his large, bulbous backpack on. "Yes ma'am?"

"Check this man for injuries."

"Looks like he took one hit to the head too many," Vodka piped up from the back of the group. Mo was focused on his scope, trying to see if he could find any Covenant around, but he still managed to stop an instant to smack Vodka over the back of the head. Vodka grunted, but grinned, having expected it. As soon as Ebony gave Vodka a warning glance, though, his grin disappeared.

Red looked him the silent man and down. "No visible injuries, ma'am. He seems fine." He paused, glancing at her.

"He's the quiet type," Vodka said jokingly. "Or he might not have a tongue." Mo glared at his spotter, annoyed at the smaller man's cracks. It really wasn't the time.

"We come all this way," Gabe said with a quiet and incredulous air, "And all we find is one guy with shell-shock?"

"Heathrow," Ebony said, officiously referring to Red by his last name instead of his nickname, "Stick close to this guy in case he starts talking or mentions a wound. Gabe, radio command and tell them our situation." She frowned, folding her arms across her chest. Her DMR was on her back. Clearly she wasn't happy, but then again, she never seemed happy. Both Red and Gabe nodded. "Everyone else, keep an eye out. Whatever Covenant force took out Alpha is still around there somewhere."

"Some rally point this was," Vodka said. "We're supposed to be reinforcements. Who the hell are we reinforcing right now? This is some crap."

"Vodka," Mo said to his spotter, still glancing down the scope of his sniper rifle, "My cow died last night so I don't need your bull."

"Nice one, bumpkin."

"Command, do you copy?" Gabe's backpack was almost as large as, if not larger than, Red's; instead of being full of medical supplies, though, it was essentially a large radio. "This is Bravo-one, we are at the rendezvous point. Alpha isn't here. …Yes. I repeat, Alpha isn't here." As he was pacing around the room communicating with command, Gabe glanced up, seeing Tempo approach the shell-shocked man to stare at him. "Acknowledged, Command, but it seems unlikely that we will be able to…yes, there are seven of us. Six in the squad, one surviving member of Alpha." Tempo waved his hand across the silent man's line of sight, seeing if he would notice; he didn't. Nervously, Red stepped forward and asked Tempo to stop (albeit tentatively; despite being nearly a head shorter than Red, Tempo was considerably more intimidating). "No, there's no sign of Covenant right now. They've clearly attacked though. Quite a few bodies are spread through the facility." Gabe sighed.

"Ask them if there are any other squads in the area," Ebony called over. Quietly, so that her subordinates didn't hear, she said, "After all, there's no way they can expect us to hold this point alone."

"Command, are there any other squads in the area?" Gabe waited for a response and then shook his head gravely at Ebony.

"Fuck," She muttered. Alpha was supposed to have been made up of forty-plus people. They'd found one.

"Understood…understood," Gabe said weakly into his radio before terminating the connection. "Our orders are still in place, Sergeant."

She nodded, putting on a brave face for her team, and stood up. "Alright, everyone. Stay sharp."

"Where the hell are the aliens?" Tempo growled, looking through his remaining ammo, of which there was little.

"Dunno," Red responded, crouched next to a windowsill near the silent man. "Clearly they fell back… for some reason. Licking their wounds right now, probably."

"Maybe our buddy here scared 'em off," Vodka said, once again referencing the soldier that wouldn't speak. He was sitting on the floor with his back propped against the wall, lighting a cigarette. "For our sakes he better have. If this guy isn't worth forty people, we're screwed."

"Less talk, more fight, Pavlov," Ebony barked. She paused momentarily to tie up her hair, as it had fallen around her face as the team had moved to their current location. Its color was only a few shades darker than that of her skin, but there was a lot of it (far past regulation—as if anyone cared about regulation hair-length right now) and if it fell into her face it could impair her aim. The only other soldier in the platoon with a similar problem was Red, but his blonde-brown curtains were quite the contrast to Ebony's dreadlocks.

"Yeah, that's probably what they told him, too," Vodka replied, motioning to the quiet guy. He was still babbling.

"You keep pushing it," Mo warned him. Vodka raised his hands, and mumbled out an 'alright, alright'.

Gabe set down his radio and moved to the far wall, where there was a good view of the reservoirs below through more broken windows. Water-processing facilities like this were becoming more and more common on human colonies; unfortunately, the Covenant knew that, which was presumably why they were trying to take this one. This structure, protected on one side by river and another side by the enormous reservoirs, provided purified water for all of the riverside town of Heimatstadt (which was German, or 'pig-latin', as Mo jokingly called it). Heimatstadt was located a few miles downriver in a delta that led into the ocean, so its water supply had to be ferried from upriver; most of the water that far into the delta was brackish. In order to acquire freshwater for the reservoirs, the river had been dammed; if the Covenant destroyed the dam, the ensuing flood of water could potentially drown Heimatstadt, wiping out most of its population without even setting a foot in the city's boundaries. For that reason, Alpha had been ordered to hold the water-processing-facility as long as was physically possible. Ebony's squad, which was a small portion of Bravo, had been sent to reinforce them, and had apparently arrived almost too late. Fortunately, the building they were in had a good vantage point over the rest of the facility, and the Covenant almost certainly wasn't going to advance through the river or through the processed-water, which meant that the UNSC Army forces (well, all seven of them) effectively had a good choking point. Their building was attached to the dam; they were all that was standing in between relative safety for Heimatstadt. A few well-placed plasma charges on the side of the dam could ruin everything.

Gabe pulled the silver cross hanging from around his neck up to his face and kissed it nervously. He was Roman-Catholic, and at times like this, he thought about religion. He wouldn't have time to, however.

"Sergeant," Mo said quietly.

"Yes?" Ebony asked.

"Calamari. A hundred meters up."

Everyone in Bravo-One abruptly began to hold their weapons a little tighter. They showed their nervousness in different ways. Red gulped and Tempo pumped his shotgun, while Mo spat out his gum and Vodka took one final drag from his cigarette. Ebony simply frowned, and—having gotten the DMR off of her back—she removed the safety.

"Numbers?"

"At least ten, each with Grunts." Mo's expression was solemn. "Permission to fire?"

"Let everyone pick a target first." She moved over to the window alongside Tempo, who—considering the range—felt a little stupid about his weapon-choice. Vodka crouched down on the ground next to Mo by the window, finding a target with his DMR. Gabe hurried over to a different window—the one next to that of the sniper and the spotter—and both he and Red took aim with their assault rifles, even though the distance was considerable. "We'll let them get a bit closer first," Ebony murmured in the ominous silence. "So they're in better range."

"Understood," Mo said. He stared down the scope of his rifle, facial expression contorted into one of zealous focus. The squid-like head of one of the Elites leading the Covenant that were approaching was disturbingly oversized in his scope; in a sense, he hated sniping, because it meant he had to look very closely at the ugly faces of his alien enemies.

"C'mon, c'mon, c'mon," Vodka muttered impatiently, squinting down the scope of his own and smaller weapon. He wouldn't admit it but he was sweating a tiny bit; thankfully, no one was looking. His cigarette lay on the floor, fizzling out of existence.

Gabe, much to his annoyance, had begun to think about his family...again. Reach was supposed to be a stronghold, a planet where he and his family would be safe; he hadn't been expecting to ever fight on its surface, even though now, in retrospect, that seemed inevitable. His squad was deployed to the opposite side of the planet as his hometown, but the Covenant were everywhere. He glanced down at his silver cross for a split second before staring down the length of his rifle again.

Red was trying to make sure his breaths stayed steady. "No more Huxleys," He whispered under his breath, to himself and no one else. "No more Huxleys."

Tempo drummed his fingers on the underside of his shotgun, glancing at the approaching Covenant battalion. He was a man of few words, but right now he looked like he wanted to be a man of only one action—the action of retreating. He wasn't a coward, but he wasn't an idiot either; somewhere in the back of his head he was beginning to wonder if the Army had been a better choice than the alternative.

Ebony glared down her DMR's sights. The Covenant must not have been expecting much resistance; they weren't moving as if they were being watched. The Grunts were waddling forward at a casual pace, and the Elites were striding with an arrogant strut that she, along with most humans, found infuriating. They'd emerged from the northeastern end of the complex.

She looked up at the silent soldier, who was still staying at the opposite wall, holding his grenade launcher to his chest like a teddy bear. He hadn't moved an inch, other than the rise and fall of his chest that went along with his breathing.

She looked back into the gun-sight. "Light them up."

The resulting orchestra of sound made even the shooters wince; there was, altogether, much too much percussion, and not enough strings. The shrill scream of Mo's sniper rifle dominated the abrupt tornado of bullets; it sunk into the mandible-gated gullet of the most ornately armored Elite, who was clad in red, and he simply collapsed to the ground, unable to speak because of the bullet that had nearly beheaded him with its force. The rest of the Elites felt bullets whir past their heads and slap into their shields, but the durable generators built into their armor held; in their alien tongue they began warbling out orders to the smaller Grunts. The Grunts, for their part, had not completely broken rank; few of them suffered injuries instantaneously, as the shots were aimed at their commanders. A few died, since Vodka was aiming for them instead of the Elites, but most pressed forward and moved into cover, one or two absorbing a stray bullet meant for the taller aliens and collapsing to the ground in a blue puddle.

"One group," Tempo roared over the gunfire, "Moving up on the right. They have no cover." Able to do little other than just watch because of his armament being a shotgun, he simply called out targets to the rest of the group. Most of them looked over towards the far right side of the expanse stretched out in front of them, where there was indeed a pair of Elites and a gaggle of Grunts aggressively advancing. Two of the Grunts collapsed from overwhelming fire, and one of the Elites fell to the ground a few feet from cover, having suffered a pulverized skull due to one of Mo's well-placed shots.

"Tempo is doing your job for you," Mo grunted to his spotter.

"I love you too, Mo," Vodka replied dryly, trying to hit some of the fleeing Grunts.

Gabe stopped when his clip ran dry, crouching back into cover and retrieving a new one. "That ought to slow them down," He exclaimed over the din.

Red was standing in cover, almost out of ammo himself, when a large pink needle smashed against the side of the building a few feet away from him. "Fuuuuuck!" He cried, moving behind the sturdy wall. "They know where we are."

"No shit," Vodka called back, looking across the battlefield and trying to find the enemy marksman. He found it in the form of a single Elite, moving up and firing haphazardly as he did so with a Needle Rifle. "Mo. Squid at three o'clock." Mo turned the end of his rifle and fired, but the Elite had stumbled over a piece of rubble just before he pulled the trigger, inadvertently saving its own life; the sniper round went flying over its head by about a foot or so. "Christ, man. Are you that bad at hitting a g-spot, too?"

Mo snorted in response. "I'm sure you have experience a-plenty in that regard, Vodka," He said sarcastically. He took another shot, and the Elite clutched at the hole in its neck before falling to the ground and writhing for a few seconds.

"Keep pouring it on," Ebony roared, firing her DMR at an Elite as it loped into cover. "We have to keep them at a distance."

Behind her, Tempo got up and hurried into cover next to the silent man. Tempo stared at the taller man again for a few seconds before gruffly grabbing at the man's grenade launcher. The silent soldier let it go with no force, and simply continued to stare forward as his arms fell to his sides. Satisfied, Tempo returned to his cover with his new weapon.

Every once and a while one of the Elites would poke out of the detritus in the urban area around the building and fire upon Bravo-One's position. They were too far away for their plasma weapons to do much good, however, and while they were still far enough away for the assault rifles to get little done, Vodka, Ebony, and Mo were able to keep them in cover with the long-range fire. Now and then a Grunt would appear outside of cover, presumably ordered out of cover by an Elite, and it would almost always get its head blown off. After a short time, though, the Elites and Grunts stopped exposing themselves, and there was momentary silence.

"Looks like the aliens rustled up some sense," Mo said, sweeping the expanse again with his scope.

"They probably have reinforcements on the way," Gabe said before Vodka could reply to Mo with some form of joke or insult (or joking insult, or insulting joke).

For almost a minute there was complete silence as the Elites and Grunts stayed in cover and the UNSC troops watched them. The silence was eventually broken by a low humming noise; in the distance, a small purple dot appeared in the air.

"Dropship incoming," Vodka groaned. "Way to jinx it, Gabe." As soon as the Spirit grew closer, the Covenant troops already on the ground were emboldened, beginning to poke out of cover and engage again. Mo scanned through their numbers, trying to pick off Elites wherever he could, and leaving the Grunts to the others; Vodka scoped in on the Spirit's payload.

"Looks like they brought Skirmishers," He said grimly.

"Time to man up, then," Mo replied.

Skirmishers presented a problem in their agility. Even Mo, with his quick reflexes, had trouble taking out the more aggressive offshoot/cousin of the Jackals. Despite their lack of a shield gauntlet (save for the higher ranking Skirmishers, which wore dual bucklers of sorts), Skirmishers were potentially even more better-defended than Jackals because of, ironically, their effective lack of any defense at all. Skirmishers did nothing but attack, which meant they didn't have to worry about protecting themselves.

"Gabe, Red, try to keep the Grunts and Elites pinned down. Vodka and I will deal with the Jackals," Ebony said. "Yes ma'am" echoed through the building like a chorus.

The Elites and Grunts, for the most part, spent their time in cover conservatively-until the Skirmishers had made it to their positions. Most of the shots fired at the speedy avian creatures landed near their feet in a whisk of smoke or a smattering of pavement. However, as they advanced, a few went down in explosions of blood or brain matter; they were running so quickly their feet still took several steps even after they'd died, almost mechanically carrying them forward until their bodies crumpled. They were many in number, however, and their agility proved to be their saving grace; most made it up to the cover being utilized by their alien comrades.

"Oh fuck," Red muttered, reloading as the ranks of the enemy were bolstered with reinforcements. "They're going to try and rush the building."

"Fire at will! Fire at will!" Ebony hollered out.

Very quickly, the Skirmishers reappeared out of cover, some bolting straight at the building and firing their weapons haphazardly; others stayed back with Needle Rifles to try and pick off the defenders. As a globule of plasma passed a few inches above his head, Mo waited with gritted teeth, standing in the line of fire. As soon as one of the Elites appeared, he took a shot, and then ducked into cover, exhaling. The Elite collapsed forwards.

Several Skirmishers ran towards the windows, potentially thinking to clamber up the wall or nearby debris and then leap through; however, those that charged head on were quickly killed by Gabe and Red's rifle bursts. Those that began to swoop around to the sides drew the focus of the rest of the platoon, and Tempo even joined in, rising out of cover and launching a grenade into the midst of several Grunts. The combined firepower of the six soldiers, however, could not hold back all of the Covenant forces.

Gabe stopped as he was reloading, hearing a very abrupt pounding sound. He looked over at the survivor from Alpha Company, who was standing completely still next to the wall. The pounding noise seemed to be emanating from right behind him.

"They have concussion rifles," Gave thought aloud, and then, quite abruptly, the wall broke under the plasma's pressure. It seemed to explode inward—unluckily, the spot where it smashed open was right behind the stock-still soldier. His eyes didn't even widen in surprise as bits of pavement and rock went flying into his back; he fell forwards and collapsed to the ground, very much dead, and was then covered in an avalanche of rubble.

Through the hole in the wall leapt a blue-armored Elite, enormous and imposing, despite its low rank. Mandibles splaying slightly, it warbled lowly as its gaze moved about the room, settling on Gabe, whose his eyes widened as he scrambled for another clip. Standing less than eight feet away and towering over any human being, the Elite raised its plasma rifle at Gabe, standing within point-blank range. It fired the weapon.

**Firstly, yes, I know cliffhangers can be evil. Hopefully this one was, as that was its intent; don't worry, though. The second part of this scene is written out and I'll upload it very soon. To be completely honest the speed and subject-matter of updates will be largely reliant upon the enthusiasm, comments, and opinions of the readers. I'd love to know what you thought of the character ensemble introduced in this chapter (were there too many characters introduced to keep up with all at once? How did the new characters, like Vodka, Tempo and Ebony, compare to those already touched upon, like Red, Gabe and Mo?) as well as the subject matter (I'm not too big on lengthy action-sequences, as they aren't my forte? Should I be more descriptive with the combat? Less descriptive? What did or did not make sense to read through?). I'm trying to keep the updates as refreshing and as fun to read (not to mention write) as I can, so just keep me posted with reviews if you're interested! More stuff should be on the way soon. I hope you enjoyed reading, and sorry about the rambling author's notes (I'll try to cut down on that too).**

**PS: You may have noticed that Red, whose reappearance was strongly advocated, is in a completely different ensemble than the first. I will elaborate upon why he is serving with a new squad instead of the old one (which included Shaw and Huxley, mentioned in the first 'chapter') if I'm asked or suggested to do so. Its your call, folks. **


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